


feelings for something lost in two parts

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, F/F, POV Second Person, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-22 20:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11974611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: How does the poem you detest go? Oh, yes. Now you remember with your throat aching and your bloodshot eyes. This is how it goes: if you love it, set it free. ( 05x12 )





	1. Fragment I

**Author's Note:**

> Just an experimental piece driven by a prose-like narrative. Each chapter will focus on two differing points of view: Joan's and Vera's. Chapter one is Joan's; chapter two is Vera's. One of my first experimental pieces while delving into this fandom was written in the second POV. The title is inspired by the song of the same name by librarytapes. Please check it out.

If you stay here, you may very well die.

The dummy that fell from the ceiling with your crude nickname (Freak written in lipstick, written in blood) scrawled across a mannequin's forehead now serves as a crude reminder. You think of it now; dear Vera tried to hide this news from you. She cares too much and that is her undoing, not yours. You know of this information through the snake you've planted in her garden. Mr. Stewart was all too gleeful to reveal the mishap to you.

Now, you think about it again, having risen from the dead not once, but twice.

There's some poetic irony in the fact, but you're too exhausted (too far gone) to juxtapose your life to a Slyvia Plath novel. You lack the humor – ha – for such insight.

Underneath the fluorescent lights of the medical ward, this revelation dawns on you. Relentlessly, you stalk around the room, akin to a caged animal rather than the meticulous woman you present yourself to be. Back and forth, back and forth, you pace. Your refined movement resembles the toothless tiger you accused Karen – ah, _Proctor_ – of being.

Your Machiavellian strategy has brought you to this pivotal point. For you, it's always been about victory. Funny how there is no victory left for you to celebrate. You've knocked the queen down: you've dismantled her. Watched the hurt flash across her eyes like the lightning to determine a thunderstorm. But you have seen that hurt before.

At the slap you delivered during Anderson's time of need.

At the riot with the needle aimed at her throat.

At the slick puddle she slipped in while the crowd jeered at her.

At the steady blip of her mum's IV when her life ran out.

At the dinner you orchestrated.

At the night sworn to be forgotten for the sake of your careers.

You didn't even notice the fault of your demise or perhaps you did know and chose to ignore the signs. Your hand twitches. And yes, it's the scarred one. The maimed one. The injured one that serves as a symbol for your corruption. For your freakish nature as the animals in this concrete jungle so love to scream.

Sitting on the cot, you struggle to stand. It's as though your legs are made of lead. No longer are your thighs marble pillars which carry you proudly. No, you've wilted – just as you've seen your mouse wilt in that vinegar baptism.

You tap on the glass.

Once, twice, thrice. The Devil's infamous mark.

In the white, surgical gown, you're no bloody saint. Disheveled, your current state mirrors how you looked on your knees in your flat: unraveled, ruined, aching, lost. As though you're the goldfish that lost its lonely life, your mouth flaps open. You, the master of speech, cannot articulate yourself.

 _Emotions are weakness,_ Dad reminds you, but he's not here.

You can't see him anymore.

“I, ah, I, uhm... wanted to thank you.”

Ashamed, you look away. You stand before your savior. You're not her maker anymore; you're a shade. Robbed of your former glory, you wonder who the impostor is now. You wonder how you can love; you find that you haven't ever since Jianna. She was the only pure thing in this world and Will Jackson took it away from you. Filthy beasts robbed you of your bliss. She made you feel as though you weren't fundamentally broken.

For Vera, you swallow your pride. This game of tug and pull comes to an abrupt end. This is your farewell song, your final good bye to your successor. You clutch the edge of the makeshift bed, the shift hissing beneath your ruinous touch.

“Why did you do it?”

Even now, you can tell that her heart wins out. She's too fragile for the hardened life of corruption. A part of you wants to hold her close to your chest: to say how sorry you are, to say that you understand, that you've been through the same. But you can't. You're not that kind of person. The other part of you wants to squeeze her: to hear her gasp, to watch the tears form in her eyes, and for you to drink them. Taste them.

You do this.

You're doing it again.

You maim and you control, because it's far easier than feeling. Than hurting.

She looks at you, glassy-eyed, and it's the first time that you haven't been able to read her vacant expression. Her diamond stare cuts hard. She buries her hands in her pockets, ridding herself of her nervousness. So you expect from the gentle doe you used to know.

Face downcast, you're a ticking time bob that's detonated. A lock of hair scrapes your cheek. You feel like you've lost your head and that it's not attached by tissue anymore. Your eyes begin to tear and burn. The noose is a phantom memory that refuses to leave you alone.

Your chuckle becomes a scoff. A dry exhalation of breath. The thorn in your paw could not be removed. Derek saw to that when the rope landed in the court.

“Whatever happens: your humanity always wins out. Is that it?”

Listless hands spasm in your lap. You look down at them: these great tools meant for destruction, for the leather vice that separates you from the errant nature of your crimes. Again, you push her away. You can't let her in.

Through wounded words, you let her go.

How does the poem you detest go? Oh, yes. Now you remember with your throat aching and your bloodshot eyes. This is how it goes: _if you love it, set it free._

And she pivots on heel.

She turns away.

So, why does she stay?


	2. Fragment II

With your tired, blue eyes staring lifelessly ahead, you move quickly. Your walk consists of a brisk pace. Your little legs carry you far. You try to ignore the monster in the room. Maybe it isn't her; maybe it's yourself.

By your sides, your hands ball into loose, rattling fists. You hide your quivering by burying them in the depths of your trousers, but you can't bury this thing between the two of you.

You fill the pants, you wear the crowns. Do you even want it anymore?

Your first instinct is to walk away.

It would be far easier to ignore her and issue her a death sentence. She's a wounded animal caught in a trap. Something inside of you makes you want to help her – the old Vera, the softer Vera, the Vera who freed a mouse from a trap and cried when it broke its wriggling, pink tail.

Hopelessly drawn in, you scurry towards the door. Your badge gives you clearance to enter the medical wing. You notice how less self-assured she is, how that self-righteousness is replaced by a vulnerability you witnessed in the asylum when her black hole eyes were robbed of wit, replaced by vacancy. You should have never thrown that in her face.

You're smart, quick on your feet, but you hide inside yourself.

Boring Vera, Simple Vera. You've been celebrated as such a meek, plain woman. You've never had a time to shine until she let you. You pretend not to feel. You emulate your maker in the laconic sense. You are what she made you to be.

She no longer looks at you as something inferior; you're her equal. Two sides of the same coin.

When you're angry and hurt, you've the habit of clenching your jaw. Your eyes shine with the tears that don't come. Alone, you cry. You've cried for minutes, hours, days while pressing your face into your misshapen pillow. Now, you don't have the energy for it.

Piece by piece, she broke you down. No, no. Mum did a good job of that before Joan. Before Joan, After Joan; it's the only way you can tell time these days.

She took it away from you: the storybook romance you finally thought you deserved. She orchestrated that great love affair with a snake called Jake. It hurts, it hurts, it fucking _hurts_.

A part of you yearns to say: _Is this what you wanted when you lived through Jake's eyes, Joan?_

"You shouldn't have pulled away at the dinner," you say it aloud and you're shocked by how hollow you sound. How empty you look with your reflection painted in the glass.

You're tired of the games. Of the manipulations. The love you felt was real. At least she taught you to be brave. At least you had the courage to stand up for yourself. To wake up from the daydream that was Mr. Stewart.

You watch her and listen to her spit out her gratitude, all apologies.

Standing in the doorframe, you lower your head. She looks up to you – at you – and your heart nearly drops into the pit of your stomach. Your mouth falls open, jaw slack. The heart travels back to the start.

Return to sender: _I don't want it._

This is the last time that you will see her.

You wish that weren't the case. You didn't know. You didn't _know_.

She targets your humanity. Attempts to decode you. To analyze your systematic flaws. You're only human. You bleed like anyone else.

You did what she could not.

You saved her when she wouldn't – **couldn't** – save you. You didn't need her to rescue you; you saved yourself.

You remember the noose hitting the court. You felt helpless when the women strung her up like a burnt out Christmas light. You didn't hesitate. You rushed to the scenes, not determined to be a hero, but desperate to salvage something lost.

You cut her down.

You breathed the life back into her.

“If I go to general, your good deed will have been in vain,” Joan insists. Bargains for lost time. Borrowed time.

You turn to leave. Her words tether you to her; you've never felt such a gravitational pull before. You can't stay away. You don't want to.

She plays God with your life and you let her. Oh, fuck. You let her.

“There's nothing I can do,” you respond; how weak and pathetic you must sound. You try to remain objective, to refrain from being ruled by your vulnerable heart. She's made such a fine mess of you.

You harden your heart. You swallow your sorrow. The throbbing vein in your neck throbs to match the red ring around hers. You pity her; you feel bad for one who has done you such terrible wrong.

“It's not my decision. I am powerless now. You did too good a job on me.”

Again, you pivot.

You stare past the threshold and focus your glare on the teal, brick wall that reminds you of her fate. Of your fate. They're hopelessly tangled.

In this life, you stay.

You look over your shoulder to see how she's withstood her fall from grace – slumped down and defenseless, she hasn't. Your tiny heels click when you bring yourself to stand in front of her.

Joan did a number on you, it's true.

You still offer her your heart.

You kiss her and drag your teeth across her lip. Make her bleed in the way that you have bled. You soften the bite of a frantic mouse with a tender lick. Your kiss, once furious, now becomes a gentle, sluggish movement like the waves you like to watch at night crash against the shore.

Taken by surprise, you notice how she jumps underneath you. You place your small, adoring hands on the tops of her knees. She loves you so she lets you go. You love her so you hold on to this nameless thing between you both.

To the feelings lost in two parts.

 


End file.
